Page 31 of Oops, I Fell For The Ranch Hand Next Door

His cabin emerges through the trees. Lamplight glows amber in the windows. Smoke curls from the chimney even though the evening’s warm because he remembers how I looked in the firelight that first night. The door is painted red, weathered and solid, the kind of detail I would’ve missed a week ago when I was too busy running to register the details.

The porch steps creak under my weight. Through the window I can see him moving in the kitchen, and the domesticity cracks something open behind my sternum. Eli chopping vegetables. Eli building a life I get to step into because I was brave enough to stop.

I knock twice. The door swings open.

He fills the frame with shoulders broad enough to block the lamplight, eyes dark and locked on mine with an intensity that makes my lungs stutter. He’s wearing dark jeans slung low over his hips and a heather-gray Henley I’ve never seen that makes his eyes look nearly black. He’s barefoot, which sends heat racing down my spine for reasons I can’t name.

“You came.” His attention drops to the flannel, to the sleeves I've shoved past my elbows, and something in his shoulders lets go. “And you're wearing my shirt.”

“I said I would.” My fingers tighten on the dove. “I keep my promises now.”

Recognition crosses his face. He steps back, opening the space, and I cross the threshold into warmth, something savory on the stove, and the particular scent of him that’s seeped into these walls. Stepping into his cabin feels like stepping into his life. Into forever. The door closes with a soft click. The sound settles inside me like a promise I know I’ll never break.

“I’m making pasta.” He gently takes the dove from my grip, as if he knows I’ve been holding it too tightly, and sets it on the mantel. Wings spread. Hope completed. “You need to eat first.”

“First.” I test the word.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. The muscle in his jaw jumps. “Yeah. First.”

He moves through the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who’s learned to cook for himself, who’s made a home in this space over four years of healing. I lean against the counter and watch the flex of his shoulders when he lifts the pot, how his forearms cord when he strains pasta, the careful way he plates food like presentation matters.

He sets two plates on the kitchen table, pulls out my chair, and waits until I sit before taking his own seat. The old-fashioned courtesy makes me feel important.

“Thank you for cooking.” The words come out too soft. “ And for waiting. For not giving up on me when I gave up on myself.”

“I told you.” He reaches across the table, lacing his fingers through mine. “I show up. That’s what I do.”

We eat with our hands linked. The pasta is good, Italian sausage in a red sauce that tastes like Louanne taught it to him, herbs I recognize from Sloane's greenhouse. Hunger catches up, and I’m eating like someone who forgot food could taste like care instead of fuel. He watches without speaking, satisfaction written across his face. When I finally set down my fork, he squeezes my hand.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” The word is easier to say than I expected. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“You've been running on empty for days, and not even Louanne's cooking could put a dent in it.” He stands, pulling me with him, and suddenly we’re near enough that I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact. “No more. You eat. You sleep. You breathe in the fresh air. You let yourself be taken care of. Understand?”

The command in his tone makes my legs go weak. “Yes.”

“Good.” His palms come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones in the gesture that’s become our language. “Because I meant every word of it in that workshop. I’m keeping you. And that means making sure you’re fed and rested and so thoroughly loved you forget every reason you thought you weren’t worth it.”

My vision blurs. I blink hard, but a tear escapes anyway, tracking down my cheek. He catches it with his thumb.

“Don’t cry.” The words are rough around the edges. “Unless they’re happy tears.”

“They are.” I rise onto my toes, closing the distance, and press my lips to his. The kiss starts gentle, a thank you or a promise. But then his hands slide from my face to my waist and he’s pulling me against him with possession that makes my heartbeat spike.

When we break apart, we’re both breathless. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and the hunger written across his face sends molten want straight to my pussy.

“Bedroom.” The single word sounds wrecked on his lips.

He takes my hand and leads me through the cabin to his bedroom. With every step, the wanting builds, not just in my body but the ache of finally allowing myself to have what I’ve been too afraid to reach for. His room is exactly how I remember it, with a window overlooking the meadow, the scent of him saturating every surface. He releases my hand and turns to face me.

“You sure?” This is one last chance to change my mind.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I reach for the hem of my tank top, but his hands stop me.

“That’s my job.” He strips the fabric over my head slowly, and then I’m standing in just my bra and jeans while he looks at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s been asking. “You’re so beautiful. Every time I see you, I can’t believe you’re real.”

His palms map my ribs, my waist, the soft swell of my belly that I’ve spent years hiding. When I tense, he presses firmer. “Don’t. Don’t hide from me. Not now. Not ever.”